


The Hawke Child

by CaptainStormChaser



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anders with extra salt, Angst, Birth, Canon-Typical Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Envious Anders, F/M, Feelings, Hawke's mabari likes to ruin the moment, I had to repost this and I'm actually mourning the lost kudos and comments, Jealous Fenris (Dragon Age), Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse Mention, Pining, Pregnancy, Pregnant Hawke, Pregnant Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Stupid Feelings, Vaginal Sex, a slight pregnancy kink, always remember to remove magical runes from weapons when attempting to carry a pregnancy to term, awkward conversatins, birth control mention, drinking while pregnant that gets glossed over by attempts at historical accuracy, dumb assholes in love, masturbation mention, rape mention, repost, there's a difference between envy and jealousy, when you don't have exiled prince and can't touch sebastian with a ten foot pole, writer's food snatched from my grasp, xenophobic free marchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9929396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainStormChaser/pseuds/CaptainStormChaser
Summary: "Am I the father?" He asked her, standing from where he had been waiting for her inside the entrance hall of her estate, reminiscent of the night the child may very well have been conceived.Marian merely stared at him evenly for a few moments. "You should go home, Fenris."Self-indulgent pregnancy AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted for personal reasons.
> 
> Apologies for anyone inconvenienced.

It went unquestioned when Hawke’s belly began to grow with child.

Fenris recognized the signs before many of the others, far too accustomed to the other slaves of Danarius’ household who would have no hope of hiding the swelling of their midsections against the pronounced bony outlines of their ribs and hips, later having a draught of witherstalk pushed on them at the orders of steward.

As the necessity of Hawke’s involvement in the events of Kirkwall once again slowed, there was no concern over it, aside from fussing over her from various sources, which she would refuse with a roll of her eyes. All the same, she ate the burned doughy cakes that Merrill gave her and allowed Orana to help her with menial tasks. Gradually, it was just accepted that the Champion of Kirkwall was an expecting mother.

It was perhaps two months following the death of the Arishok, when there was no doubt of her pregnancy, that Fenris approached her.

“Am I the father?” He asked her, standing from where he had sat waiting for her inside the entrance hall of her estate, reminiscent of the night the child may very well have been conceived.

Marian merely stared at him evenly for a few moments. Her mabari had stopped beside her, wide tongue lolling out. Fenris could see the flickers of emotion that crossed her face, gone nearly as quickly as they had come as Hawke schooled her expression. Sadness, fear, the shift of her jaw as she bit down on her tongue. “You should go home, Fenris. There are cutpurses in the streets, and no one wants to see their bloodstains on the cobbles come morning.”

“Hawke,” he began.

“Sleep well, Fenris.” She said dismissively, shoulder brushing his as she pushed past and inside her estate.

* * *

Fenris scarcely slept that night. His mind was hounded as it hadn’t been before. In a way, it was nearly worse having had Hawke confirm that she wished him not know.

It was hardly his business, he told himself, had Hawke taken another lover. She had been known to spend the occasional evening in the Blooming Rose, nor would any eligible man in Kirkwall turn her away. Or ineligible ones, as it were. She certainly had her pick, sheaves of documents prepared by Leandra testament to that.

Anders would be all too happy to welcome her to his bed.

Fenris gripped at the edge of the bed frame, scratches and indentations from fingernails in the expensive wood evident of the habit. It curled his stomach, stirred bile, to think of the mage laying his lecherous hands on her.

Maker, what if it was the abomination’s spawn that had taken root in her womb? Would it twist her? Could she herself become possessed? She was already far too sympathetic to the mages, if the child were a danger to her, he knew she would do nothing to stop it.

No. Fenris would not allow himself to think about that.

He squeezed his eyes tighter, rucking his hand through his hair before burying it beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger briefly, making sure it was there. Fenris willed himself once again to sleep, futilely. He would not think anymore.

…

Maker, what if it was his?

Fenris had never entertained the idea of fatherhood before. Serving Danarius, fleeing Danarius, still fleeing Danarius, never had an opportunity for such idle luxury been presented to him.

Hawke, carrying his child, her breasts and belly both growing heavy, birthing an infant, their infant.

A baby girl, dark hair and her mother’s eyes. He hoped she had mother’s eyes.

A son, curious and wide-eyes, a strong mother and father both standing over him and guiding him to adulthood.

The thought made his heart clench.

If it were true, Fenris was to be a father. He closed his eyes tightly again, unable to stop the smile creeping up his lips. For a moment, he allowed himself a sojourn into contentment before it was overwhelmed by niggling doubt.

Hawke hadn’t confirmed or denied whether the child was his. That likely meant one of three things, he reasoned. The first, she though him uninterested in the responsibilities of a father. The second, _she_ didn’t want him to be involved. Given how he had left after their coupling, either seemed likely. Then the third. Fenris was not to be a father, but rather another man. Bitterly, Anders’ face crossed his mind, bearing the dewy look of longing and reverence that always clouded his eyes when Hawke spoke.

He wished the last two had never occurred to him.

The first was safe. The first, he could prove Hawke-

Prove her what? Wrong? Right?

Did he wish to be a father?

Until recently, Fenris was certain that he and Hawke would remain comrades and friends, their tryst forgotten.

 _It was no tryst._ a small voice mocked him.

If Danarius were to return, no, _when_ the magister came to collect him, he would certainly want any children Fenris had fathered for his wretched experiments. He clenched his fist, the bedframe edge at last splintering under the abuse.

* * *

It was brought up over cards one evening. Merrill, Varric, Isabella, Aveline, and Anders in attendance, the Dalish elf drunkenly babbling about Maker knows what.

"-But I know!" She was insisting.

"'Course you do, Kitten." Isabella assuaged her, running her fingers through the short black locks.

Merrill pouted. "You don't believe me. But I swear I know it, Hawke's having a son!"

Fenris' eyes darted up just a tad too quickly for his liking.

"Keeper taught me everything about childbirth. I can _tell_!" Merrill pressed. With dawning realization, her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a perfect 'o'. "Bela, do you think Hawke would let me attend the birth?"

Isabela pretended to ponder this for a moment. "Maybe you should ask her."

Merrill smiled brightly, and Varric cut in.

"Nothing against you, Daisy, but I think it's probably going to be a Chantry healer, maybe Anders."

Merrill turned on Anders.

The human looked at her. "I don't think..." Merrill’s face fell, and he sighed. "We'll talk about it another time."

Merrill gasped aloud, standing up and swaying a bit and requiring Isabella's hand on her arm to carefully hold her upright. Fenris nearly scoffed when he took note of how much they had all drank, recalling the refills that had flowed quickly for a stretch of time.

"Who do you think the father is? Humans need fathers to have children, don't they? Hawke is so wonderful; it must be a dashing prince! But, the only prince we know is Sebastian, and the Maker said he couldn't do that,"

"Easy, Daisy." Varric soothed. "I'm sure it's someone charming and only slightly murderous."

Fenris was careful not to let his eyes fall on Merrill as he took his turn, the game having long since been paused for conversation.

“Is it you, Anders?” Merrill asked excitedly. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, like a puppy.”

“The same way you look at blood magic?” Anders asked airily.

Merrill recoiled a bit, then turned her attention elsewhere.

"What about Fenris?”

The elf felt discomfort and eyes crawling over him in equal measure, legs like the great glossy scarabs on Seheron with their incessant pricking.

Perhaps out of respect for their friend’s embarrassment, there was a brief silence.

“So, what do you have to say, Fenris?” Isabela purred. “Did you… mend her kettle? Rummage in her root cellar? Did you _move her furniture_?”

“That’s none of your business.” He bit out, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“Cut him some slack.” Varric chimed in, throwing in a few more silver to the pot. “He’s blushing. Besides, you know damn well who it is.”

Isabela sniffed. “That doesn’t mean it’s not fun.”

Merrill looked wide-eyed between the two rogues. “You know who it is? How?”

“She told us, of course.” Isabela grinned. “Me, Varric, Captain Man-Hands, and I believe Sebastian knows.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Merrill fretted. “We’re friends, and I can keep a secret!”

“No, you really can’t.” Isabela said.

"I'm sure Hawke wouldn’t appreciate our talking about her." Aveline pointed out idly, carefully setting the Angel of Death card on the table, groans issuing from the other players.

“Winner buys the drinks.” Varric reminded the guard captain, carefully counting tankards and refills in bottles.

“Maybe if I tell her some of the secrets I’m keeping,” Merrill muttered.

“Alright, Daisy, let’s get you out of here,” Varric said gently, guiding Merrill by her elbow.

Isabela leaned back in her chair until it rested only on the rear legs, balanced by her crossed ankles on the table. She glanced between Anders and Fenris, grinning as though Satinalia had come early.

“So…” She trailed off. “I’ll just leave the two of you alone.”

Fenris grit his teeth as the Rivaini stood (as though the next table over, leaning toward them constituted as any form of privacy), staring down at the final dregs of his sour ale.

“You _are_ the father, then?” Anders broke the silence.

“What matter is it to you, mage?”

“Hawke is my friend.” Anders said sharply. “However poor her taste in bed partners. And if the father of her child abandons her-”

Fenris’ hands slammed on the table as he stood, glowering and upturning a few tankards. His outburst drew many an eye, but the Hanged Man was quick to return to its clamor.

“Don’t dare to speak of things you know nothing of, mage.” Fenris snarled.

Anders’ eyes flicked across Fenris’ face before his lips parted in revelation. “You don’t know.”

Fenris nearly flinched at that. “Hold your tongue, or I will reach through your throat and take it myself.”

Anders looked away, sighing. “I love her, you know.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Fenris said dryly.

Anders refilled Fenris’ tankard, gesturing for the elf to sit. Against his better judgement, he did.

“It burned me to learn that you and she… what had happened. A word in passing from Bodahn, of all people. He made it sound as though you were getting married.”

“I didn’t stay to hear your lamentations of lost love.” Fenris said, sipping at his ale.

“My point is, you are not right for her. You’re too sharp, too broken. You’ll only end up destroying her.”

Fenris bristled. “It would suit you well not to make presumptions, _demon_.”

Anders regarded Fenris strangely. “You deny yourself. You want her nearly as badly as I do. You know very well she cares for you, but you stay away.”

“I don’t much care for lectures. Yours least of all.”

“But you know I’m right.” Anders pointed out.

“You say that with certainty.”

“Would you still be here if I wasn’t?” Fenris remained silent at this, and Anders continued, standing. “But, it’s late, and the walk to Darktown long.” Anders downed the remainder of his ale, giving a nod to Fenris. “And if it’s any conciliation, Hawke and I haven’t, well, I assure you that I’m not the father.”

It was.

* * *

Hawke was much more… sensitive.

The mere action of haggling with scrupulous Hightown merchants brought frustrated tears to her eyes. It was much worse when she was drinking, and she openly sobbed over featherless young birds fallen from nests of all things.

She daren’t come near the Hanged Man, complaining that the smell of not the tavern itself, but of the sea set her stomach into discourse. Isabela seemed to take this as a personal offense.

Regardless of this, Fenris still found himself pulled from sleep by Hawke’s insistent knocking at the door, bidding him to join her for night patrols. Her argument was that she didn’t dare ask Aveline, lest the guard captain take it as a slight.

With a sigh, he donned his armor and a sword as long as he was tall and walked the streets at her flank, hand occasionally having to push out at a wet questing nose to stop her infernal dog from trying to lick up his arm.

She wore leathers only on her legs, a simple shirt on her torso. Her daggers were strapped to her back, the runes gone from them and subsequently not crackling with electricity.

“I thought it would be better for the baby.” She said.

“Excuse me?”

“You were staring at them.” She nodded over her shoulder.

“Ah.” Fenris bit his lower lip, ignoring a potential double meaning. He glanced around them. “You are aware, of course, that a few months isn’t enough time for a new crime underworld power to build itself up? This patrol is pointless.”

“Indulge me.” She murmured as they came to a grandiose fountain outside one of the estates.

Hawke smirked at Fenris before she sauntered over to it and sat on the edge, setting about removing her boots and leathers.

“What are you doing?” Fenris asked, crossing his arms.

“I wanted to soak in the cool water.” She put her daggers aside, standing before him in only in thin breeches and a shirt before she sat on the edge of the stone and put her feet in the water.

“You woke me in the dead of night so that you could swim in some nobleman’s fountain?”

Hawke looked him dead in the eye, face serious. “Yes. Would you like to join me?”

Fenris hesitated, then sat on the edge and working off his gauntlets. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to merely draw a cool bath?”

“Well, then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of your company.” She grinned at him.

Fenris sighed, standing once again with his back to her while he removed his armor. All the while, he could hear the gentle flicking of her feet in the water.

She smiled brightly when he sat beside her, sticking his feet in the fountain. He noticed for the first time the colorful fish swimming in slow, graceful arcs, darting away when he invaded their home but quickly recovering and weaving through the water as though his ankles were merely somewhat interesting rocks.

“Why did you want to do this, exactly?” Fenris asked.

Hawke shrugged. “It’s been hot lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

Fenris shook his head. “Tevinter is far warmer.”

Hawke hummed noncommittally at that, flicker her toes to the side and splashing water up onto Fenris’ calf.

He raised an eyebrow at her, only serving as motivation for her to do it once again, wetness falling just short of his knee. He braced his hands on the fountain’s edge, dipping his fingers silently below the surface of the water.

“Are you done?” He asked.

She shook her head. “Not by far.”

The splash this time sent water into his lap.

“This is childish.” He informed her.

Her eyes glanced away, and his hands came together, quickly and quietly, cupping water and depositing it promptly on top of her head.

Hawke’s eyes were wide with surprise as she stared at him, water trickling through her hair and down her face, dripping from her chin and down her neck and back. “You’re a dead man.” She whispered.

Perfect stillness.

She gripped his arm, jerking him off balance with sheer surprise and sending him into the fountain with a great splash.

Jubilant with this turn of events, Hawke’s dog jumped in the fountain after him, leaping through it and chasing the fish to and fro.

Hawke was laughing at him as water dripped from his hair, spitting to get the water off his lips. Fenris turned his head, glaring at her. Slightly remorseful expression, Hawke extended her hand to him.

A rather foolish move, on her part, for Fenris only pulled her in after him.

Jokingly, Hawke shoved him back, and Fenris retaliated by splashing her once more.

She grabbed him by the back of the head, pushing his face into the water.

“Hawke!” He sputtered when her grip loosened only a moment later, shaking water from his hair and pushing it from his eyes. He looked to her, suddenly finding his mouth very dry.

The collar of her shirt was all askew, the fabric bunching across her breasts. They hung heavy, heavier than they had when the night he had seen them bared, dusky pink nipples pushing at her shirt with chill. The wet fabric clung to her skin, nearly transparent. Her breeches were in no better state.

Arousal curled in his belly as he looked away.

“Fenris, look at me.” She said. The water stirred as she drew closer to him.

He swallowed, steeling himself before his eyes found hers. Her hand, fingers beginning to prune, held his jaw, thumb swiping over his cheekbone. He flinched, drawn back to a time when Danarius would perform the same action, telling him what a sweet little thing he was.

Hawke lowered her hand, finding his instead and lacing their fingers together.

She brought her head forward, pressing their foreheads together, noses brushing and breath mingling.

“Please,” he pleaded, though he knew not what for. To stop, to not tempt him with what he could not ever hope to have, to not stop, not ever stop, to give him what he was too weak to refuse, to deprive him of that very thing for his own good.

She pressed their lips together.

Fenris stilled, sucking in a hasty breath through his nose. His hands he settled on her hips, her arms encircling his neck.

Hawke’s dog barked. Loudly, if muffled.

The two of them broke apart, turning to find the mabari standing triumphant, short tail wagging and one of the fountain’s fish flopping furiously between his jaws.

“Who’s out there?” An angry voice called from the estate, a window being thrown open.

“Shit,” Hawke muttered, the both of them scrambling out of the fountain and attempting to retrieve their armor and weapons as quickly as possible.

* * *

This could not continue. This absolutely could not continue. Fenris would drive himself insane so long as he held but a shred of… of what, exactly? Hope? Hope that perhaps things could work themselves out?

No. Not hope.

Hope was such an idle thing, weak-willed and transparent.

He didn’t like the word longing. It made him sound like some sort of love-sick child trifling with things beyond his reach, doomed to fall.

But then, that was nearly exactly what he was.

Neither of them spoke about the night in the fountain. They played Diamondback in Varric’s room at the Hanged Man, as Hawke’s nausea for the sea seemed to have passed or at the very least become more bearable and her appetite come anew for the mystery stew, neither of them going out of their way to acknowledge the other.

Fenris was a fool to think such peace could last.

Sometimes, he would catch her watching him. From the corner of his eye, he would see the radiant blue, always gone when he surreptitiously looked back at her.

They drank together, and everything seemed to be the same as it was before, though now he had the mage to contend with. Anders was a constant presence, always _touching_ her. A ‘helpful’ hand on her arm, assisting her to stand, making sure she ate, making sure she didn’t drink too much. It was sickening to watch, truly.

In fact, Fenris often found himself gritting his teeth in disgust, wondering how much it would take to cause the demon to flee from him. Would it interfere if he were to reach into Anders? Would he be able to feel the demon, and would it feel him?

Isabela’s hand on his jarred him from his thoughts, and he quickly turned to her. One of her eyebrows was raised with concern, but her eyes were knowing.

With an uneasy exhale, Fenris released his white-knuckled grip on his cards, surprised they had wrinkled rather than torn, and discarded his winning hand.

“I fold.” He declared, standing.

“So do I.” Hawke said, freezing him in his tracks.

“Tired?” Anders asked her, one hand on her upper arm and the other taking her hand as she rose. She gave him a smile of thanks.

“Exhausted.” She replied. “But I’m always happy to come see you all and help feed Varric’s tab.” She looked at Fenris. “Walk with me?”

Fenris cleared his throat, then gave a sharp nod.

This was normal. They had walked from the tavern to Hightown together a hundred times. There was absolutely nothing unusual at all about the request.

Regardless, his thoughts wandered as she donned her cloak and roused her dog from his sleep beside the fire.

_Her body pressed flush to his, thin, soaked clothes the only thing between them. Her hands in his hair, her lips on his._

Fenris realized that under no uncertain circumstances was this to end well.

A jaunt to Hightown in the dark after they had wiped out the last dregs of whatever crime ring had most recently seized power was a small task. They arrived at the Amell estate first.

He was going to leave her at the door, return to his stolen manor, and have a quick wank followed by a spell of self-loathing. Maybe a bath next.

Her hand caught his arm.

“Fenris,” she murmured, as though to a spooked animal. “Stay. Please.”

He didn’t look back at her. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” She demanded. “I… I care for you. And I think you care for me. If I’m wrong,”

“No.” He said, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then why can’t you stay?”

No. No no no no no. His resolve was weakening. He could not let it. He had to go.

“Fenris,”

He swallowed, turning to face her. Cautiously, he raised his hand to her face. A tilt of her chin upwards, and he kissed her.

Neither of them moved beyond breathing, merely standing on her doorstep with their lips pressed together. The kind of chaste kisses one reserved for great-aunts and Chantry sisters.

It was she who broke the moment, taking his hand and pulling him toward her chambers.

He followed her.

They undressed each other slowly, warm hands spanning over skin. He would admit, it was a small shock to see her belly bared, great with child. He stilled before her, his shirt cast to the floor and trousers loosened.

He took in the shape of her body, already changed in a mere five months since they had lain together, her eyes following him curiously. Hawke stepped a bit closer, spreading her hand over his chest. Her fingers traced the lines of lyrium downwards, her breath catching when she reached the waist of his trousers, barely caught on his hipbones.

Hawke pulled him downwards for a kiss once more. Her lips were soft, pliant, parting to suck his tongue and leave him dizzied and breathless. She smiled softly to him before she sat at the edge of her bed and removed her trousers and smallclothes in a single fluid movement, leaving her bare before him.

Fenris’ lips parted as he stepped to stand over her, her eyes so full of lust and adoration that he didn’t deserve from her of all people.

She moved further back on the bed, supporting herself against the heap of pillows at its head. Fenris followed, crawling over her and kissing her. Her fingernails smoothed down his back, her breasts pushing insistently at his chest. He broke the contact between their lips to latch his mouth to her nipple, the other he pinched between his fingers, tugging gently. She moaned softly above him as he sucked and licked earnestly.

“Fenris,” she muttered, voice low. “Please,”

He silenced her with a kiss to her lips once again, his hands cupping her breasts, travelling down her sides.

Her fingers curled at the waist of his trousers, pushing them over his hips, her hands trailing across the backs of his thighs.

He knelt back on his heels to remove his trousers completely, returning between her thighs. His hand he lowered to her core, fingers deftly spreading her lips. He gave a low groan upon finding her wet, dipping his first finger inside of her.

“Maker,” Hawke murmured, her hips bucking onto his hand.

His mouth opened, her thighs trembling when his breath ghosted over her. He buried his face there, course curls tickling his nose. Her breathy moans were the sweetest music, withdrawing his hand and instead gripping the backs of her thighs, dipping his tongue into her and reveling in the pleasured cry and the taste of her, heady and musky.

Fenris opened his eyes as he sucked and licked at her greedily, desiring to see her face lost in the throes of ecstasy. Instead, he saw the curve of her belly, obscuring the view.

His child.

 _Their_ child.

Warmth spread through his chest, and he knew euphoria.

* * *

Varric was deep in business reports when Fenris arrived, thankfully bereft of visitors for what had to be the first time in a month at the least.

“Broody!” The dwarf greeted, more than likely only relieved to have an excuse to not be doing the work the Merchant’s Guild demanded of him. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Fenris steeled himself, squaring his shoulders. “We need to talk. I have questions.”

Varric gestured to the table before him, and Fenris took a seat. As always, the dwarf-intended furniture resulted in his legs bent more than ideal, and he pushed his feet out beneath the table. Varric had stood, getting them drinks from his personal collection.

Fenris held the tankard between his hands, giving a nod in thanks. “It’s… about Hawke.”

“Ah. You know, I heard a rumor about the two of you.” Fenris forced himself not to turn his gaze away. Varric quirked a brow in response. “And it’s true.” Varric sighed, leaning back in his seat and kicking his ankles onto the table, crossing them. “Ask away.”

“Hawke is with child. I believe it is my child. However,”

“You can’t just out and ask her.” Varric completed the thought. “That would prove you don’t trust her. Just like this conversation does. Even though the two of you weren’t exclusive at the time, you did sleep together and your concern is that it isn’t your kid.”

“I,” Fenris found his throat suddenly dry, taking a heavy swallow of the piss that passed for ale in the Hanged Man. “If the child is mine, I want to know. I want to be prepared if it isn’t.”

“And you couldn’t ask Isabella because”

“She would bait and tease me before giving me an answer that I couldn’t trust.” Fenris finished.

“Choir Boy would never let that information go, Aveline wouldn’t tell you _and_ she would tell Hawke that you asked. So that just leaves me.”

“That leaves you.” Fenris agreed solemnly.

Varric pursed his lips before exhaling. “I can’t tell you.”

Fenris felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. “Dwarf,”

Varric held up a hand. “I’s not my information to deal. If you have to know, ask Hawke. I promise, she’ll be a lot more understanding than you think.”

Fenris considered this.

“Out of curiosity,” Varric continued. “What if the kid isn’t yours? What would you do then?”

Fenris pursed his lips together. “If Hawke has no objections, I… I don’t know.” He admitted. “Any association to me may endanger them both should my past catch up with me.” Fenris looked down at his hands, eyes following the familiar winding tracks of lyrium.

And his past would almost certainly catch up with him.

* * *

Hawke preferred sleeping on her side. Fenris found that out, now more often than not sleeping with her back pressed to his chest, even when a bone-deep weariness in both of them kept Fenris’ presence in her bed one of comfort and affection rather than to purposefully sate their lust for one another. In the heavy sleep she fell under, Fenris would bury his nose in her neck, inhaling the scent of her. One night he dared his hands to move from where they rested on either side of her, smoothing the rough calloused pads of his fingers over her belly. Be it or not his imagination, he could feel the kicks of life stirring even as mother slept. Within a month’s time, the mage said.

He closed his eyes as he held her like that, his hands still drawing circles and idle shapes across her skin.

“F’nris?” Hawke mumbled sleepily, jarring him from his light dozing. He took this to be her talking in her sleep until she turned her head partway around, her eyes open and clear.

The elf gave a hummed reply.

“Are you awake?”

“I’m here, Hawke.” He said.

He felt her stiffen in his arms. “I- I need to tell you something.”

“Anything.” Fenris promised, his next swallow thick in his throat. Was this..?

Hawke pulled away from his grasp, rolling to face him. She wore a serious expression. “It was after everything with Hadriana. After the first time we were together.” She hesitated. “After my mother was killed.”

Fenris moved further from her, giving her room to lay a bit apart from him while she wasn’t as close to the perilous edge of the bed that would set her cursed dog barking if she fell over. Hawke wet her lips, visible only by wet gleam in the fading light of the hearth.

* * *

Marian… did not like this bar. Dark, and not in a comforting way. The seclusion made her hyperaware of her surroundings, though that had been the point she had come here instead of the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose. The last thing she needed was her friends concerned with her drinking herself downward into a steady stupor. The second to last thing she needed was Seneschal Bran suddenly overcoming his mortification of encountering her in a brothel and deciding that the moment was right to approach her over all the tedious bureaucratic things he was hounding her to do.

So the Pickled Swine it was, originally wedged quite literally in a hole in a wall and built up from there on the docks. The only others in the place were the hard-assed bartender shooting her glares, a few “““true Kirkwallers””” cursing oxmen and dog lords in equal measure, and a pair of well and truly sloshed Templars falling over themselves in the corner.

Her ale was sour. Of course, essentially all ale she drank since the start of the Blight was sour, but that was beside the point. Marian slapped a few copper on the bar to pay her tab, and she left, all too aware of the drunken Marchers ghosting her footsteps. Of course, they were fairly loud, so noticing wasn’t a great achievement of itself. Out of caution, Marian faked a misstep, feeling the weight of her daggers as they swung back from the motion.

About halfway to Lowtown, one of the men let out a fast, repetitive whistle, as one might summon a dog. “Come here, you Mabari-humping bitch.” He called in the sweetest of tones.

Marian turned her head partway over her shoulder. “Lost your mother, have you? I think I saw her just around the corner, a few paces past the end of the pier.”

A single bark of laughter from behind her. Marian didn’t stop walking. She knew Varric kept some of his agents posted just a little further. If it came to it, she’d prefer to have back up against… five? Six men?

“Hear that, boys? Ferelden bitch thinks she’s clever.”

A pair of hands grabbed her roughly, slamming her against the nearest wall. The smell of the very same soured ale she had just changed her evening plans to avoid assaulted her senses. Now that just wouldn’t do.

The man cried out quietly, briefly, as Hawke wasted her little belt knife on his gut, the sharp twist of her hand sending another shiver of pain through him as he fell to the ground. Hawke drew her daggers, knees falling into a fighting stance and eyes darting among the remaining men. Not one of them with a staff or bow. Really, they made this too easy.

The first reckless fellow had the swing of his sword deftly deflected by one blade while Hawke shoved the second into his throat. Sloppy. Any half-decent swordsman would be disgraced by the display.

It was a dance. Albeit, a rather simple one as they, for a time, couldn’t quite fathom the idea of attacking as a group rather than charging her one by one. The final three men attacked in unison, the only thing working in their favor being the fact that their absolute lack of organized footwork made their motions more difficult to preempt. Duck, parry, feign, swipe, swift kick to the groin, stab, one more dead and the ballet drew nearer the close.

A greatsword’s blow descended, and Hawke brought both daggers up to block. She tried to step back, but was met only with her head clunking somewhat painfully against a wall of masonry. Damn it. Greatsword’s accomplice took his shot, but instead of doing something smart like maybe plunging a knife into her kidney, he punched her in the stomach. Not even very hard. Hawke nearly sighed, her knee coming up to catch Greatsword in the manhood and her blade in his throat. Unclever Ferret, as she dubbed the other, had started to run, stopping dead in the street as his head made the exact same sound as those rotten melons Marian had spent an entire summer filling with arrows when half the crop around Lothering got the withering sickness. Yuck. Anyway… Unclever Ferret. Yes, good and dead. Well, maybe not so much ‘good’ as perhaps ‘slimy’. The shaft of an arrow stuck up from his face, right through his nose. A masterwork of a shot, really.

“Serah Hawke.” The seeming leader of the three Ashaad greeted, voice unusually syrupy in tone. He crouched at the side of Unclever Ferret, cutting through his pockets until a waxy papered envelope was retrieved. He opened it, giving it a shallow sniff, and turning back urgently to Marian.

She realized now for the first time she was sitting. She supposed she always had to look up to see Qunari; it only made sense that she hadn’t noticed that doing an awful lot of not changing.

Her attempts to rise were thwarted by her elbow knocking against something hard. She looked down and… curious. She didn’t recall anyone choosing to store the blade of a knife in her abdomen. Unclever Ferret had punched her there but, she’s sure she would have noticed a blade in place of a fist. She gripped the hilt, drawing it outwards without feeling despite the hazy protests of the Ashaad. Blood flowed freely, the dark red blurring before her eyes as it began to pool on the stones, fading at last to a slumbering black.

* * *

Marian was shaking, unable to move but willing her eyes to open regardless. Futilely, she discovered.

There was the sound of stirring, water dripping, and then a cool wet rag was pressed to her forehead. It was nice. She let out a soft hum, feeling beads of water slide down her face, some getting lost in her hair and others falling straight to her ears and tickling uncomfortably.

Focusing intently, she tried to recall what had led her here. She’d been drinking. And then the bastards had tried to ambush her, the Ashaad, the knife,

Thinking of her injury seemed to draw her attention to it, pain shooting through her side. Lips unable to part, she groaned quietly. Poison definitely counted as cheating. Penalty to Unclever Ferret.

Her caretaker seemed to take this to mean she was conscious, a large hand going behind her head, then her upper back, lifting her upper body and tucking a pillow behind her. A warm, smooth ceramic cup was pressed to her lips, and she accepted the warm, dark tasting fluid. Tea? It was rich, strong, sharp against her tongue as she tried to recall how to swallow. A single heavy gulp, and the cup was removed.

“Do not exert yourself.” A deep, familiar voice instructed.

Marian forced her eyelids to flicker, catching sight of scarred grey-bronzed skin, a torso more than twice as thick as she was, covered in red war paint designs. What had she heard it called? Something that started with a V, she was sure. Upwards, a strong jaw, white hair, gold jewelry adorning the ears, banded over the large horns, disapproving pale grey eyes,

“Arishok?” She murmured.

* * *

“He demanded to know why I was out alone and drunk, getting myself shanked and poisoned in alleys. I explained some of it, and he used a few choice terms to describe my audacity for allowing my emotions to control me.”

“And that led you to…” Fenris started.

“It wasn’t exactly tender lovemaking.” Marian replied. “I’m not even sure that ‘tender’ and ‘Arishok’ belong together in the same sentence. After the healer, the—aqun-taar? —was satisfied the poison was neutralized, we started talking. It was… an outlet. For the both of us. Practical. It worked out in the end, I suppose.” Her hand slid across her belly, cradling it. “I found out a month before I killed him.”

“Do you regret it?” Fenris asked after a moment. “It was I that suggested the duel in the first place.”

Marian shook her head slowly. “It had to be done.” She extended her hand a bit, then recoiled. “Varric told me you asked,” she explained. “And I wanted to know,” she looked deeply into his eyes, features pained and frightened. “Would you… Does this change anything?”

Fenris enveloped her in an embrace as a reply, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I will be here as long as you will have me.” He whispered.

* * *

It was two weeks later that Fenris was disturbed by quick knocking at his manor door, opening it to find Bodahn hunched over and gasping for breath.

Fenris didn’t stay to listen. He pulled the door briskly shut behind him, all but sprinting to the Amell estate. Sandal was before the fire, scratching the noticeably unsettled dog’s ears.

Fenris heard a cry of pain from upstairs, and he shot to Hawke’s bedroom door, not bothering to knock.

Marian was lying across the bed, bare from the waist down and Anders poised between her legs, towels heaped beneath them. Merrill stood near her head, Hawke clutching her hand tightly. Orana was at the hearth, watching over a pot of boiling water.

Hawke’s face was flushed, her breathing ragged, her eyes brightening when she caught sight of Fenris.

The blood was pounding in his ears, but he thought she might have said his name. In an instant he was at her side, taking her hand from Merrill.

“Are you alright?” He asked her, overcome with what to say, what to ask, because it was happening and the gravity of the situation was beating against him. Probably a foolish question.

“Afraid not.” She ground out, teeth clenched, knuckles turning white as she crushed Fenris’ hand.

“It’ll be a few hours.” Anders said, looking up at Fenris and then Marian. “It’s important that you don’t try to push yet, or you’ll tire yourself out. If you can relax, it will make it easier on you.”

* * *

Eleven hours. It had been midmorning when Fenris had been sent for. Now it was dark, and Marian was screaming as Anders encouraged her at last to push, push harder, and then another sound; the bawling of a child.

“Fenris,” Merrill said quietly. Carefully, Marian released her grip on his hand, and he went to the other end of the bed. The squalling child, skin a bit grey and head as bald as an egg, was held carefully by Anders atop a towel. Fenris glanced at Merrill, and noticed the knife the Dalish elf held in her hands.

Fenris took it carefully, and looked at the babe- a boy, he noticed. It would seem Merrill had been correct in her prediction. “What would you have me do?” He asked, voice not as steady as he would have liked.

Merrill traced a finger along the chord. “Around there.” She instructed. “Try to do it quickly if you can.”

Fenris nodded, bringing the blade to the underside and slicing through it cleanly. His eyes met Anders’, and a moment of understanding passed between them before the elf returned the knife to Merrill’s hand and returned to Marian’s side. Tears still streaked down her face, eyes threatening to close with exhaustion.

The water Orana had been keeping hot all day was used to wipe down the baby, clean away the blood, towels used to dry and swaddle him.

Merrill’s eyes were bright when she came around the bed, passing the baby carefully into Marian’s arms.

“A son.” Fenris murmured to her.

“Our son.” She corrected.

He quieted in her arms, blinking his eyelids and staring up at her unfocusedly. Fenris smiled to himself. He had his mother’s eyes.

Marian snickered to herself as Anders and Merrill left the room. “Meredith’s going to shit herself.” She said quietly.

Fenris smiled.

“Our son.” He repeated, barely a breath.

* * *

Hawke trudged home, half-supported by Fenris, at his insistence, for she knew him to be just as weary as she was, both of them covered in blood and filth. Hightown was in near shambles, unaffected by the abominations and fighting but the Chantry was just… gone. Edges of the sturdy dwarven stonework survived, but all structure was destroyed. It had been her fear that the damage would be more extensive, spreading out to the estates, but the Amell family home was undamaged, if a bit shaken. Candles and lanterns had been blown out, a few windows broken, that ugly old Orlesian vase unfortunately knocked to the floor and shattered.

“Orana!” Marian called, anxiously. “Ataashi!”

“Here, Mistress.” Orana said, emerging from the kitchen, Ataashi in her arms. His face was ruddy, dried mucus lingering at his face evident that he had been crying. “We hid in the vault when we heard the noise.”

Marian immediately left Fenris’ side and enveloped maidservant and son in her arms, exhaling with relief.

Fenris knew as well as she did that the moment Marian had stood with Orsino, nothing could have stopped Meredith from sending a Templar to the estate to hold the child hostage. Too many times before, she had slipped mention of Ataashi into conversation to force Marian to see things her way, like a petulant child threatening to throw stones. Perhaps even if the messenger’s convictions were strong enough, their devotion to their Knight-Commander great enough, to-

“Going to introduce me, then?” Bethany interrupted Fenris’ thoughts, standing just inside the hall, looking horribly out of place in bloodied Grey Warden robes in the grandiose home of her family that she had never been able to see beyond a scuffle with slavers so many years ago in the cellar.

Marian turned back to her sister and smiled for the first time that day, lifting the babe from Orana’s arms. “Bethy, this is Ataashi, my son.”

* * *

The open sea air was more refreshing than the brine of Kirkwall by tenfold.

Hawke leaned on her arms on the ship’s railing, her eyes closed. All about her, the crew was in constant motion, Isabela barking out commands.

A familiar pair of hands settled on Marian’s waist, a warm body pressing to her back.

“He’s sleeping with Bethany.” Fenris murmured.

The Warden had been instantly entranced by her nephew, talking with him in nonsense words with cheer, lavishing his plump cheeks with kisses. Bethany might have made a wonderful mother, Marian reflected. Always patient and kind with children. Her younger sister had had quite a fondness for Sebastian once. Had fate been kinder to them, Bethany might have been the Princess of Starkhaven, inviting Lady Hawke of the Kirkwall Amells to stay for a few weeks for company over tea, talking about books and traveling, and Marian might mention a racy tale that sent Bethany blushing before she shared one of her own.

Carver would visit too, had fate been kinder, and Mother and Father would have their own wing in both the palace and the Amell estate.

Fate, however, was cruel.

Bethany would serve the Grey Wardens until death.

Sebastian would likely keep his promise and march on Kirkwall.

Anders was in the wind, still believing what he’d done was right.

Aveline and Knight-Captain Cullen bore the brunt of the fallout, counting dead and helping, perhaps evacuating, hundreds of Blight refugees turned Kirkwall refugees in a mere decade.

Father was dead.

Carver was dead.

Mother was dead.

The family home passed on to Orana alongside the fortune with the instructions to go to Aveline or Varric if anything were to happen.

Isabela, at least, seemed happy. The ship was handsome, Merrill on the foredeck watching the water, and the captain at her helm.

“You’re thinking too much.” Fenris told her.

Marian shook her head. “I’m going to miss Kirkwall.”

* * *

Fenris’ hands were warm where they spanned her sides, fingers curled over her ribs. He rocked his hips against her from behind, cock sliding between her slick folds. Marian wanted to cry out in frustration, but bit her lip in fear of waking Ataashi. Only the length of the inn room, the snores of a mabari, and a changing screen separated the sleeping boy, no longer a babe, from them; a great deal more privacy than they’d had in weeks.

“Fenris,” Marian hissed quietly, feeling the low chuckle against her back. The head of his cock dragged agonizingly over her clit with each slow movement, never enough to feel any real pleasure.

When she brought her own hands downward with the intention of correcting his angle, he grabbed her wrists and at last, blessedly, pushed inside of her.

A moan of relief died in Marian’s throat, the walls of her cunt clenching around him.

His thrusts were maddeningly slow and shallow, the position allowing Marian to do very little to speed things along. Nor could she reach between her legs to fondle his sack, nor nip at his throat, nor roll them over and ride astride his hips until he spilled deep inside her, biting back groans.

His hands came to rest on her breasts, pinching and tugging her nipples as he gradually sped his pace. With her wrists freed, Marian pushed herself to her hands and knees, pushing back against Fenris in time to his thrusts.

“Shameless minx.” He snickered, folding over her body and pressing searing kisses to her shoulders.

Marian sighed as he buried himself to the hilt, drawing back and snapping his hips forward. Marian buried her face forward in the pillow to stop pleasured moans from joining the slap of skin.

Fenris slowed and withdrew despite Marian’s whine of protest, and he shushed her.

His fingers replaced his cock, curling within her with greater dexterity that sent shivers through her body.

This was short-lived, and his tongue replaced his fingers. She tasted like the sweetest of honey, he liked to tell her. Marian had more trouble keeping quiet as his tongue delved within her, warm and smooth.

The sound as he slurped her arousal was outright obscene, even without his own moans to reverberate through her core. He reluctantly removed himself after no more than a few seconds, and Marian wondered if he was in fact aiming to make her weep. But, no. His hands fell to her thighs, turning her onto her back. He held her in a heated gaze as he moved slowly over her, like the dark jungle cat he’d described hunting once alongside the Fog Warriors.

He entered her again, her legs thrown around his waist, tightening with each thrust and digging her heels into his buttocks. He brought his hand to her core, circling and tweaking her clitoris.

Marian began to squirm as it became too much, though Fenris’s pace did not falter. She buried her teeth in the meat of his shoulder as she came undone, body stiffening and tightening. She reveled in the voiceless, breathy sounds Fenris made as his hot seed filled her and his overheated body settled atop hers, weight kept off of her by his elbows.

He had a habit of nuzzling, though she would never voice a complaint, his exerted breath on her jaw.

After a few moments, Fenris pulled himself from her and instead settled on her side, pulling her into his arms and smothering her throat with kisses.

“Shameless.” Marian sighed, turning fully into him and kissing him properly.

Fenris hummed his response.

* * *

The letter came some time while they were outside Jadar. It was as close as they’d dared venture to the Conclave, able to receive news of the Breach or the Inquisition within a few days.

The Tethras signet glared up at Marian in the red wax of a Chantry candle. Last time Varric had written, it was to tell them that the search for her had been called off.

She opened the letter, reading it twice, three times, by the flickering light of candles.

“What does the dwarf say?” Fenris asked.

Marian lowered the letter, brow furrowed. “I think we need to join the Inquisition.”

**Author's Note:**

> Emphasis on self-indulgent
> 
> But hey, at least I'm finally posting some of my DA fanfiction instead of letting it build up in a mountain of WIP. Yay.
> 
> Reviews are love!


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